


In which Gil loses his cool

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: Poison in Paris [5]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Paris hijinks, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 17:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: ...not that he's exactly known for having an abundance of chill.





	In which Gil loses his cool

The Underground Cryptography Society had temporarily relocated above ground pending the renovation of their headquarters. For the latest meeting, they occupied a disused lounge adjacent to a dance hall. Tarvek found the location downright seedy, but the company amused him enough to keep him there. The club members clustered around a scarred old table that might have been lit on fire more than once, arguing about a cipher, and they were all wrong. Well, Gil had it mostly right, but he kept switching the fours and nines in the alphanumeric code. Then he started substituting a square shape for the fours, which somehow confused half of the other club members. 

_This is why I’m one of the few people who can read your notes_ , Tarvek thought with a tiny smile. He liked watching Gil work, but he could never admit it to anyone else. The half of the Society that Gil had not thrown into a confusion began to grasp the solution, and the other half argued with renewed vigor. Hilarious. 

With raised voices in front of him, Tarvek almost missed the sound behind him. The clock on the wall ticked a slight reverberation, a faint carrier pitch on every second. Thinking the device in need of maintenance, he turned and opened the housing. The finely tuned machine he found within needed no help from a well-intentioned student. 

As he inspected the bits that certainly did not belong in a clock, the minute hand ticked over to point at the five, and a cylinder released a clear liquid onto a dark blue powder. The mixture sizzled, and at the first whiff of almond, Tarvek bolted for the exit. 

“GAS!” he bellowed, grabbing Gil on the way past and dragging him along. “CYANIDE!”

Gil made a small noise of surprise in the back of his nose. He stumbled along, but when Tarvek released him outside the door, he turned right back toward the room they had just evacuated. Other members of the club, having no cause for doubt, spilled out after them. Gil seemed prepared to shoulder his way through the crowd. 

“What are you doing?” Tarvek demanded, stepping in front of him. 

“Is everyone out?” Gil called, craning his neck and trying to count club members. Receiving no reply, he started forward. 

Tarvek took two fistfuls of Gil’s waistcoat and pushed back, leaning his entire weight against Gil’s ill-advised charge. “You are  _not_  going back in there, you suicidal imbecile!” He slid backward, and for a sickening moment he thought Gil would drag him along into a room full of hydrogen cyanide. Then, his lip curling and his eyes flashing danger, Gil stopped pushing. 

“How many are still in there?” 

Tarvek’s grip tightened. “It doesn’t matter! They’ve inhaled a lethal dose by now.”

Gil’s temper flashed like a gas jet. “I hate you!” he yelled. 

“That’s fine!” Tarvek snapped right back. “You’re alive!”

“I could have saved them!”

“And died in the attempt?” Tarvek scoffed. “Or do you have a respirator mask in your pocket? There was enough Prussian blue in that clock to kill half the school.”

Gil’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How did you know it was there?”

Tarvek sighed. “The clock sounded wrong. I opened it. You don’t believe me.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” Gil said, not denying the accusation. 

“Why would I try to poison everyone and then announce it?”

Gil’s face scrunched a little. “You’re the sneak. You tell me.” 

Tarvek shook his head. The president of the club, a wiry fellow known only as Warwick, called roll. Two members failed to answer. Gil’s anger flared anew. 

“Two people are dead because of you.”

“Eleven people are  _alive_  because of me,” Tarvek snapped, indignant. He didn’t expect gratitude, but Gil’s stubborn accusation irritated him. 

“I could have saved them.”

“Then three people would be dead.”

“You can’t know that,” Gil insisted. “You didn’t even let me try.”

Tarvek felt his fists clenching at his sides, and the muscles along his spine tensed. “You must think I’m really stupid—”

“Sturmvoraus!” Warwick clapped him on the shoulder and nearly got himself punched. “I think we can safely call you the hero of the day.”

Awkward. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Tarvek said, and Gil helpfully added:

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Laughing, Warwick clapped his other hand on Gil’s shoulder. “You two! I’d say I can’t believe you’re fighting about  _this_ , but no, I believe it.”

Gil pulled a sour face, which Tarvek felt himself mirroring. 

“Let’s adjourn the meeting to a more hospitable location,” Warwick continued. “Drinks are on me.”

Still glaring at Gil, Tarvek nodded. Warwick was that odd sort of student who dressed with all the sensibility of a hobo and yet he somehow always seemed to have money. If the man wanted to buy drinks for everyone, Tarvek felt inclined to let him. Gil shook his head. 

“I have to alert the authorities.”

“Oh,  _do_  lay off the heroing for twenty minutes or so,” Warwick said, rolling his eyes in a perfect echo of Tarvek’s opinion on the matter. “Anyway, as club president, it falls to me to report any incidents. Which I’ve done already.” His eyes narrowed in challenge at Gil’s suspicious stare. 

“Fine,” Gil grumped. “I have to stay until the cleanup unit certifies that no public hazard remains.”

Warwick’s eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“Academic probation,” Gil and Tarvek said in unison. 

“Oh? What for this time?”

Gil sighed. “For setting fire to the Seine and then—”

“Oh good lord,” Warwick interrupted. “That was  _you?_  Of course it was.” He waved off Gil’s objection. “Catch up with us at L'Endroit Habituel later.” He linked elbows with Tarvek and steered him away from Gil. “I owe you my life and my dignity. The least I can do is buy you a drink.”

Against his better judgment, Tarvek cast a glance over his shoulder at Gil. He wanted commiseration over the mystery that was Warwick, that the man could transition effortlessly from shrinking wallflower to competent leader and back again, but Gil only scowled at them both. Fine. 

“Don’t worry,” Tarvek said, “we won’t drink the place dry before you get there.”

The rest of the club laughed at that remark, which Tarvek supposed was a victory of sorts. He thought about the look on Gil’s face, thought about those words spoken in anger, and he longed for the liberty to get good and drunk.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if anyone wants to see more of Warwick. I accidentally gave him a backstory.


End file.
